times square
by The Star Room
Summary: Steve hasn't slept in 35 hours. The trial for the Winter Soldier is quickly approaching, Christmas is only a few days away ... and oh, he hasn't heard from Bucky all day. Their apartment is empty. Steve can only assume the worst.


Times Square was every bit the meddling and gorgeous monster Steve remembered from the 40s. During the war, it had been a little less … _bright_, per se, but its obnoxious form of beauty hadn't changed. It was loud and it was crowded. It demanded attention. It attracted the eye.

It was the absolute last place on earth Steve wanted to be that evening.

He kept his head down. This was the only thing he could do in large public places, where any seven-year-old with a Toys 'R Us membership recognized his face. "That's him, Mama! Captain America!" On lunchboxes, on posters, on your daily cable news, now in video games, apparently? Steve had witnessed an entire art gallery devoted to paintings of his face, alongside the watercolor portraits of his team members. Natasha's in particular had been an abomination. Oversexualization. And the artist had gotten Clint's nose all wrong.

As he walked past a pack of skinny teenagers, he tugged on the hood of his coat, pulling the fabric down over his eyes. It wasn't that he minded being seen in public; he actually enjoyed interacting with young kids squabbling for autographs, or the odd union worker down on his luck. But on nights like tonight, with Christmas around the corner and S.H.I.E.L.D breathing down his neck … he didn't have time.

Plus it was _cold_ – 20 degrees, 10:00 pm – and he'd already spent three hours searching here.

He paused on the corner nearest the flashing Coca Cola sign, backtracking his steps. He'd already tried every major restaurant and shopping center in the district. He'd called Bucky's cell phone, tried his comm line, even sent him poorly encrypted news alerts. Nothing – not so much as a text in reply.

They'd talked about this. The disappearing act. Bucky had to quit it. Vanishing suddenly, with no note or warning. For days at a time. Showing up again a week later with a key card from a motel in Pennsylvania. Getting spotted on the news – again. It was dangerous, unnecessary – frankly it scared the hell out of Steve. Every time Bucky was gone, it was like losing him again. _What if his memory—? What if he's caught—? What if I can't find—? What if—? What if? What if?_

"Steve."

He started, his journal slipping out of his hands and onto the asphalt. He whipped around, looking for a familiar face.

"On the comm, genius."

_Oh. _He fished the device out of his pocket and brought it to eye-level. Tony blinked back at him from the screen, looking sleep-deprived and anxious.

"Buenos noches from Mexico City, pal," the older man said. He hadn't shaved in a couple days; he looked like a mess. "Y'know, I really think we ought to put a leash on this kid. Like the ones you see on toddlers at Disney World? Might fix the 'disappearing fugitive' problem."

"Tony. I know you're busy, but this is –"

"Important, yeah, I gathered. That's why I interrupted an incredibly important business meeting to track NYPD phone calls."

"I – thank you," Steve said, glancing around to be sure no one was watching. "I'm sorry I—"

"Someone found him, Steve," Tony interrupted. "Some paranoid mother called 911 after witnessing, and I quote, 'a man with a metal arm break into a Christmas display case and steal Santa Claus.'"

"I – _what?"_

"You heard me. H.Y.D.R.A's greatest weapon recently decided he's the Grinch, and it's his sworn duty to prevent Christmas from happening. Kids everywhere are weeping."

Steve swerved around, already headed down 42nd Street. "I'm not laughing, Stark. Where is he?"

"Oh, I know it's getting serious when you call me 'Stark.'" Tony rolled his eyes. "I traced the mother's call and it came from outside Noelkin's. It's a gift shop a few miles east from Times Square. Most tourists don't know about it; more of a local thing. Pepper loves it."

"And the police?" Steve asked, breaking into a jog.

"I already cancelled the call. Nobody but Paranoia Mom has any idea the Winter Soldier is in New York City. You can calm down now."

"Not until I find Bucky."

Tony sighed, dragging his hand down his face. "Yeah, okay, Brokeback Mountain. Let me know if you need anything else. Actually, scratch that – don't call me unless Times Square is burning. Even then – call Thor first."

Steve paused when he got to the corner, glancing back down at the comm in his hand. "Tony – thank you. Truly."

"Anything for a veteran. Good night, Steve."

The screen went black.

In less than a second, he was sprinting. No point pretending he wasn't Captain America now; he'd caught the eye of every pedestrian within a 50-foot radius. No human could run this quickly. It was exhilarating: air in his lungs crisp and icy (no wheezing, no asthma). Arms swinging back and forth like cogs in clockwork. Feet so fast he felt the concrete could crack beneath him. The world was dizzy at this speed - Christmas lights flashed by in a daze; kids in striped hats, wool coats, coughing on car exhaust; shop signs in bright colors, "holiday sale, 50% off!"; street performers in a rendition of "Silent Night"; tail lights and head lights and frozen breaths under lamplight. It was all too much sometimes, if Steve was honest with himself. The changes of the world. The weight on his shoulders. The pressure of keeping these people and their dreams safe. Alive.

_Bucky_.

Steve hadn't slept in thirty-five hours. Calls from news stations kept him awake - "do you know the whereabouts of the Winter Soldier, sir?" Calls from Hill next - "Steve, this is government business now. I can't keep it silent forever." Calls from Tony, Clint, Nat, Thor only a few hours later - "You're needed here, we're needed there, the world needs a hero, that's you, come on."

And then there was _Bucky_.

Bucky, the mad man in the black mask with the muddled brain and the metal arm. Amnesiac, wanted murderer, political catalyst. The ticking time bomb, man behind the curtain, puppet and dummy.

But. Still _Bucky_.

Noelkin's was dead ahead. A chalkboard sign sat outside the corner shop: "SANTA IS HERE" in bright red letters. The mechanical Mr. Claus sat pressed against the storefront window, his beard falling down his wooden chin.

So if Bucky had tried to steal Santa, he at the very least hadn't _succeeded_.

Not wanting to consider the possible reasons as to _why_ that was, Steve found that, yes, he could in fact run faster.

* * *

><p>Noelkin's was practically postcard-ready. A Christmas shopper's wonderland, it looked as if it might explode from the sheer amount of items within. The interior was alit and bustling with customers despite the late hour. Little girls in velvet coats surrounded the main entrance, where a row of glass dolls batted their eyelashes and kissed them all good evening. Steve had to blink a few times before it seemed real; for a moment, he felt he was back in Brooklyn, 1939.<p>

Thick garlands of Christmas lights twisted from one end of the ceiling to another, bunching amongst industrial wooden beams. Everything smelled of pine and poinsettias and creamy, homemade vanilla. The store was large for something so local; it stretched back some 15 yards, every inch of hardwood floor supporting shelves or rugs or tables in rustic red and green. There was a Christmas tree every few feet it seemed, this one blue and this one white, that one gold and that one silver.

And in the midst of it all was a man.

Kids swarmed past without noticing he was there. He glanced around as if transfixed, his eyes wandering from one display to another, his gloved hands resting at his sides. He was dressed like any common New Yorker: Yankees hoodie with a baseball cap, grey parka hanging off his shoulders. His hair was a bit strange – he clearly didn't know how to fix it the way all the celebrities did these days. It was side-swept but unkempt, a little too long about the ears. He smiled at whatever keepsake was in his hands; he held it so gingerly, it might have been an infant.

Steve was so relieved, he almost didn't hear the shopkeeper behind him.

"Excuse me, young man?" a choked voice asked. "I said, can I help you?"

Steve turned around to discover a small, aging man in a wool sweater. His chapped lips were open in a welcoming smile, but it was his eyes – a shade of shocking green – that caught Steve's attention. He spoke in an accent – what was that, _Russian?_

"Excuse me?" the man asked again (definitely Russian). He held a wooden broom in one hand, a tube of wrapping paper in the other.

"Pardon me, sir, I apologize," Steve replied, clearing his throat. He pointed towards the display case, where Santa was still leaning against the glass like he couldn't catch his breath. "May I ask what happened to Santa? Did someone -?"

The Russian man chuckled to himself, nodding. "A young man came in a couple hours ago and thought it was for sale. He'd nearly carried Mr. Kringle all the way to the cash register before I stopped him. I'm sure he meant no harm. I redirected him to the ornaments section, where we keep some of our Santa miniatures," he explained. He glanced across the room and added, "In fact, he's still there now. I believe he's become quite enamored with our creations."

Steve followed his gaze and, yes, the shopkeeper was right: Bucky hadn't moved an inch. He was still bent over the rows of hand-painted, glass-blown ornaments, examining each one individually. Steve was reminded of a boy from many years ago who had a passion for collecting baseball cards. He'd line them up on shelves and pour over each one like they were worth a million bucks.

"If you don't mind, sir," Steve said, "I think I'll go ask him which ornament he recommends."

"Be my guest," the shopkeeper replied. Steve could have sworn he saw him wink.

He moved through the aisles slowly, passing a row of overstuffed teddy bears and a shelf of Christmas china. Steve hardly noticed them; he was watching Bucky, the way his metal fingers touched the ornaments so gently it was surreal. Steve had almost died by those metal fingers.

_Best not think of that._

When he was close enough to be heard, he took a deep breath. Learning to address Bucky was like learning how to disable a bomb. You never knew what might set him off, what might flip a switch in his brain.

"Bucky," Steve finally said. Quiet, but steady.

The man's head whipped around and he nearly dropped the ornament in his hand. It wobbled dangerously at the corner of his palm before he quickly placed it on the counter, moving with speed that was – well, frankly inhuman. His name had brought him to a soldier's attention. "Bucky" was a sensitive word now – he'd had to relearn it, to re-associate it with himself. It was like a cue card or a whistle; it alerted him, startled him.

But as soon as he saw Steve, the fear was gone. He broke into a grin.

"Steve! I— you—"

And just as quickly as the smile had appeared, it was gone. Something had dawned on him.

"Oh. Shit."

Under normal circumstances, Steve might have laughed. But part of him was still frustrated; he'd searched for hours, hoping Bucky wasn't captured or hurt or _worse_ … and here was his friend, wandering through a department store like he'd never seen clearance items before. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Buck, what are you _doing_?"

"Damn it. What time is it?" Bucky started looking around, forgetting about the watch Steve had bought him, the one currently wrapped around his wrist. "I only meant to be gone for a couple hours, you were meeting with – uh... the President or something, or maybe Stark, I dunno, but –"

"I was meeting with your lawyer. And you've been gone for five hours."

Bucky's face fell. "_That_ long?" he asked.

"Yeah," Steve replied. "That long. And no message from you. No warning."

"I'm sorry."

"That's all I get? You're sorry?"

"Steve, you can't keep being my babysitter."

"That's a little rich coming from you, Buck. You spent almost 20 years of your life looking out for me."

"I had to."

"Yeah, well, now _I _have to."

Bucky took a long lung-rattling breath, looking defeated. "It was gonna be a surprise, alright?"

That stopped Steve in his tracks. He raised an eyebrow. "A … surprise?"

A buzzing whir came from Bucky's metal arm, as if to testify to its master's confession; he smacked it to keep it quiet. "We don't have a Christmas tree, Steve," he said. "You notice that?"

"Uh. Yes?"

"We had a Christmas tree every year back in Brooklyn. When your mom got sick, we decorated it right in her bedroom."

"You remember."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. I remember. So why don't we have a tree?"

Steve found he didn't have an answer.

"And then I thought, we don't have ornaments," Bucky continued. "Your mom used to keep them in those big boxes beneath the stairs, but they sold all your things when you 'died' during the war. And I … my dad wasn't huge on Christmas. And then Rebecca, she …" He trailed off.

Steve finally put the pieces together. "You wanted to buy us ornaments? For a tree. Why didn't you just ask?"

Bucky readjusted his baseball cap, scratching the scruff at the nape of his neck (still too long). "It's Christmas, Steve. And I don't even know who I am," he said. "You're running around every day trying to fix things, you hardly sleep at night, I've watched you toss and turn for weeks now, and I just thought … maybe I could pay you back somehow. Maybe it would help."

For a moment, the both of them were silent. They stood across from another in the dead center of Noelkin's, "I'll Be Home For Christmas" playing through the overhead speakers. The little Russian shopkeeper waltzed by, sweeping up dust bunnies into a pan. The store was closing up – 11pm, lights out.

"Can I make a deal with you?" Steve asked finally.

"Sure. Shoot."

"You have to stop doing this. You can't disappear on me. If people had any idea you were in New York City, if they knew we were living together, that we were—"

"I get it, Steve. Not a great public image for the Super Friends."

"That's not what I'm saying," Steve said. "This isn't about the Avengers. It's about you."

His eyes on the floor, as if he were a naughty child being scolded, Bucky nodded. "I won't leave again. Promise."

Steve stepped forward, his eyes scanning the wooden shelf. After a minute of searching, he plucked an ornament off its stand, bringing it close for Bucky to examine. "And if you keep that promise, then we have Christmas. A real Christmas," Steve said." I'll make mom's apple cider and you can buy that horrible fruit cake from the market."

Bucky laughed – a real laugh, not the tinny one he'd created for times when it was "socially appropriate" to laugh. "It's delicious and you know it," he replied, grinning.

"If you burn off all your taste buds, sure." Steve glanced back at the Russian man, who was dusting off a display of miniature trains. "And we'll stay here until midnight and pay this poor shopkeeper overtime. And we'll buy whatever ornaments you like, because Natasha says I have horrid taste in interior decorating. So that's your job."

"She's right, you know. You _do_ have terrible taste."

"Don't push your luck, jerk," Steve replied, taking Bucky's hand. He placed the ornament into his palm, closing his fingers around it.

He waited, watching Bucky's expression slowly turn from confusion to joy. The ornament was a true antique – he knew Bucky would recognize it immediately. Resting in his hand was a perfectly replicated model of Howard Stark's first flying car, the one he'd showcased at the World Expo all those years ago. A small button rested under the hood, and when Bucky pressed it, the car began to hover just above his wrist. It honked twice, as if it were happy to be awakened.

"Technology these days," Bucky mused. "Crazy, isn't it?"

"Trust me, I've been around Tony long enough to know it's over-rated," Steve replied. He clapped his partner gently on the back. "Come on, we only have an hour. Let's stock up."

"Are you serious about this? I don't want to make you—"

"Bucky," Steve interrupted. "If ever in my entire life I needed Christmas, it's now. S.H.I.E.L.D's in flames, the government is ready to knock my door down, and sometimes I feel we're only a few days away from World War II again. But with aliens this time. And you …"

Bucky smirked. "Yeah. And then there's me."

"Come on, go buy those wooden angels Mom loved so much. I'll pay the shopkeeper."

Leaving Bucky to his work, Steve shuffled back to the front of the store, where the Russian man was flipping the 'Open' sign to say 'Closed.' He turned to see Steve approaching and laughed. "Well, it would appear I'm running an inn! Can I help you at this late hour?"

"Sir, I hate to inconvenience you, but I—"

"It's Christmas. You aren't inconveniencing me," the shopkeeper said. "Go ahead, go pick what you like. No need to pay me."

Steve frowned. "Well, I couldn't possibly—"

"Your boyfriend is handsome, " the man interrupted, glancing past Steve to watch Bucky slip ornaments into a mesh shopping bag. "You ought to hold onto him. Looks like he could get himself lost if you aren't careful."

"Oh, I – he—" Steve sputtered. "He isn't –"

"Don't lie to an old man, son. It isn't polite." He met Steve's gaze, and his eyes were so bold and familiar it was unsettling.

" … Right, sir. Forgive me, sir."

He peered at Steve over his half-rimmed glasses. "You love him?"

"He's my best friend."

"So yes. Then what are you waiting for? Give him a Christmas. Isn't that what we do for the people we love?"

"I believe you're right, sir."

"Good. Now, please, go on before I get impatient."

Steve grinned. "I will. Thank you."

He rejoined Bucky in the middle of the store, and the two of them poured over ornaments for the next 45 minutes. Some of them were small and simple, little glass snowmen with fat chests and knit gloves. Others were old and growing dusty – a particular favorite of Bucky's was one painted in giant numbers –"2000!" – celebrating the turn of the millennia. Another was an intricate sculpture of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, with a glowing LED where his nose should have been. It was the first time the two of them had been alone together in days, and the first time either of them had had any fun in weeks. At one point, Bucky even sang quietly under his breath – he wasn't bad, as long as he had the overhead speakers to guide him.

When they finally walked home, the ornaments wrapped safely in a gift bag, the streets were dying down. Times Square was just a dim reflection of its usual 9-o'-clock glory. Still, it was beautiful and it was familiar – a lighthouse in the raging typhoon of New York City. They walked side-by-side, a scarf tied around Bucky's neck, a hat over Steve's ears. And, thankfully, blissfully, they were alone. No one watched them as they traversed the streets. No one was paying any attention to a familiar blonde man and his notorious sidekick. No one examined Steve's face to see the blue eyes of Captain America. No one recognized Bucky Barnes without his long hair and bulletproof vest.

And no one raised an eyebrow when Bucky slipped his hand into Steve's. They were just two young gentlemen in a new world. In Times Square.

_Thank you_, Steve thought, as the flashing Coca Cola sign illuminated Bucky's face, revealing new battle scars but the same ever-loving smile. That smile could walk a million lifetimes, survive a million years as the Winter Soldier, and still find a way back home.

And as the two of them entered Steve's apartment and started pulling the cushions off the couch, spreading them about like make-shift mattresses, Steve realized he hadn't had a Christmas in over 70 years.

Might as well make this one special.


End file.
